Pendragons

2008-05-07T09:25:00.000-07:00

good grief!
I have been working
trying to get this blogger thing going again
hey Susan!
i have no idea if anyone will ever see it
but here goes

2007-03-04T04:36:00.000-08:00

Tangles – anna hood

She said: Geese etch triangles
across a pewter sky. The Pownal River
rattles his great jagged teeth,
scrapes the sun’s reflection
over his cellophane skin while north winds
bleach marsh grass the colour of tea.
The kingfishers have returned;
they sit, ick-ick-ick on the wire
above the pond. Tough pale shoots of tiger
lilies thrust themselves from earth
brick red. Her golden horses
prance and kick in their frozen pasture.
Manure piles steam.

She told me: long ago
when they were young
luck lived inside
their summer brown bodies - an invited guest -
their mouths tangled around
each other like a good merlot
or N’awlins coffee smooth with chicory.
Her velvet curtains trembled
guitars when they kissed.
She wrote love poems
on his right thigh.
He planted apricot trees.

She says: now luck’s moved on
leaving her body pale
fragile as Limoge china,
tissue paper. In the dark she’s alone
with The Shopping Channel
some decorating maven god forbid
Gilligan’s Island
Brown Bats.

It is March after all.

2007-03-02T10:01:00.000-08:00

Women are from Venus ~~ anna hood ~~

I loved you
then, back then
when you were
a God. We fit.

Back then you did
God-like things.
Kissed
and kissed and kissed and kissed.
Steamy kisses, damp and misty kisses
kisses without beginning or end kisses.

And like an ancient knight
it caught your fancy
to wear a lock
of my pubic hair
pinned like a medal
to your chest.
Sexy beast.

We used to walk
across the milky way
the pathway of souls
across the roof of our world
night swishing our ankles
our footsteps ankle deep in sky
our lungs full of sky
our mouths full
of secret words
like forever and always.

Our voices lit the night
with breath hot
as Africa
my nipples firecrackers
under your tongue.
You smelled like a God.
You tasted like a God.
My god
I thought you were God.

Somewhere along the way
it changed
Mars maybe
you remembered your home
remembered Mars the war god.
Somehow it changed
the pubic hair medal gone
kissing’s somewhat pallid
the sky no longer our pathway
and although you’re still a god
you’re definitely a god
with a small g.

2007-02-26T15:22:00.000-08:00

Go Deeper ~~ anna hood ~~

Look into the mirror, look
past the blank
blue-eyed stare, red mouth
of a Modigliani nude
past the morning routine
two coffees, one double double
one black
past last evening's love-making,
hot kisses.

Look deeper
past the meadow
white snow covered
gold buttercups covered
trails of field mice
and garter snakes.
The old apple tree
naked now
sleeps.

Go deeper still
past the throat singers of Mongolia
who whistle like flutes
who whistle like birds
whose whistles spark
memories of fast horses
cloud covered backs
hooves sparking mountains.

Deeper deeper
into your DNA
until the scent of Africa
fills your lungs
and you wake to the music
of your ancestors.
Your emotions bow down
under the enamelled blue sky.

Look into the mirror
of your eyes
Can you see
your future?

2007-02-19T14:24:00.000-08:00

They never fit. ~Anna Hood~

Hip bones clanged
too many teeth
his tongue too sharp
hers could cut steel.
And possibly worst of all
for him at least
she had breasts so small
as to be nonexistent
(and him a tit man)
but still he’d said
he’d like to get closer.
‘Move in with me,’ he said.
‘We’ll be a pair,’ he said.
‘You and me. Babe’
as if he was Sonny for Christ sake.

She a hedgehog
prickly old maid
hard as nail polish
slick with hair spray
tailored suits and a bank account
ignored her more and more
ramparting misgivings
(what if this was it?)
agreed. Settled for second best
maybe third.
She didn’t like
his aftershave.
Sometimes when dining
out he used the wrong fork (!)
and how could she bear it
a snowstorm of dandruff
on navy or black.

Even in the beginning
her sleep patterns
were disturbed.
She was hot
in the night dreamed
scarlet mounties
musical rides, black
horses in time.
No pyrotechnics from him
only those overhead wires
astride his house
their heavy black strings
their razory thrumming
strings, vibrated her nightly
and not in any good way.

She’d never cooked
grilled cheese her mainstay.
The first wife had
and well it seemed
delicious gourmet treats
thoughts of the sauces
made his mouth water
or so he said
made his mouth flap
open criticize her sandwiches
perfectly golden
the cheese melted
cut corner to corner
sweet pickles artistic
on the plate.

Weekends a war zone
the visiting daughter
named for the doll
but neither thin
nor pretty
hostile as a shrew
and equipped
with his paternal tongue
sharp and so viper quick
that a word, even kind
could throw her into a fury
of rage or indignation.
Wouldn’t eat grilled cheese
‘hives,’ she said
‘lactose intolerant,’ she said.
Stepmommy said, ‘Bullshit.’

Thoughts of her old solitary life
became attractive again.
Her own bed
dreams
mounted scarlet men
atop black horses
(or her)
weekends without Barbie
no razory thrumming wires
vibrating her (she had a vibrator
thank you very much)
We’ll always stay friends,’ he said
She nodded but thought
a cat might be nice.

2007-02-15T05:36:00.000-08:00

Ricky ~anna hood~

Over her head he sleeps
curled away in the straight-jacket
of his mind
his body thrashing
dreams.

Does he dream that someone
loves him? No one does (do they?)
except Daisy
the black and white collie
whose whole body shivers
with love for him.

She tries really she does,
what mother
wouldn't/couldn’t love her child?
(God help her)

The children, even the kind
ones call him moron
spaz lunatic. She tells people
something misfires in his brain
crashes smashes mashes trashes
in his brain my GOD
she's beginning to sound like him.

She tries to love him. Really.
Where did she go wrong?
She did everything right
the vitamins
the exercises, no alcohol
not even a drop on her birthday
sat for hours at the old Heinzman
in the porch playing Gershwin for him
(Someone To Watch Over Me)
read to him
(Beatrix Potter and such)
when he was just a slippery
fish even then thrashing
kicking lurching around inside her.

At night when he sleeps she reads
the National Enquirer mostly
and wonders about aliens.

2007-02-09T06:15:00.000-08:00

Dragons ~~ anna hood ~~

Once again I dream:
I am six curled up beside my sister
tucked tight under the eaves
of our little gingerbread
house.
Outside the moon
her bones, eyes and wings
her polished face
embroidered onto the gentle black
cloak of night spills
over the sill splashes silver
my sister’s hair
tints her eyelids mauve pale.

They flutter
hiding her green eyes,
bright as bird song.
Green as spring
my mother used to say
or liquid Palmolive soap
or new lettuce or the wine bottles
in her paintings or my sister’s eyes.

My eyes are grey
the pupils outlined in black
like a funeral notice
like rainy mornings, like
shingle houses on a stormy Cape
Cod, grey as the owl who takes me
to the scary dreamland I visit.
My mother never painted my eyes
too drab perhaps for her
paintbox of brilliance
My mother never painted me
a green eyed dragon.

As her dreams take her
slipping sliding
between realities
my sister’s mouth curves
into the technicolour world
she visits each night
the vein on her neck
thin as blue silk thread
pulses her breath a ghost of wind.
She’s gathered into a ball
in her favourite Snoopy
nightie shapeless as an amoeba.
Curtains of blonde hair
the colour stolen
from a January sun
ice the pillow.

I want to siphon them
away, those dreams
take them for my own
enter her cotton candy world
my own mouth curving up
into my sister’s eyes
into my mother’s paintings.
But no. I’m down here alone
in my black and white dreams
where the only bright thing
is my sister’s green eyes.

I am tired of these dreams
tired of writing poems
about dead friends
and lovers.
I’m tired of winter.

2007-02-04T04:05:00.000-08:00

GYPSY WINDS ~~ anna hood

(Pooka: a faerie spirit in animal form - always very large.
Appears here and there, now and then, to one or another.
A benign but mischievous creature.
Fond of rumpots and crackpots.
The pooka Harvey was made famous
when he appeared with James Stewart
in the film entitled 'Harvey')

Gordon Foster sat at his special table at Starbucks,
a slight crease between his eyes, as he mused about
how his life was going. Until Russell happened along,
things had been going rather well for Gordon Foster,
a bit dull, but he was getting on to about fifty and well,
dull isn’t so bad. After his father had died Gordon
had stepped in and taken over the hardware store
and if he did say so himself he’d done a damn fine job of it.
Business was booming, mainly because he’d brought in
a new line of housewares and his customers were buying
expensive pots and pans like they’d never cooked before.

His mother seemed pleased, thank God; she’d stopped
complaining about his drinking - that was because
he had stopped drinking - well almost. But this
wasn’t due to Mother this was Mona’s doing.
Mona was Gordon’s girl; she didn’t like his drinking either
but she didn’t nag on and on like Mother; she had a
better cure: if there was even a hint of liquor
on his breath Mona refused sex and if there was one thing
that could deter Gordon from the drink, it was sex.

Gordon had been somewhat of a late bloomer;
he’d never had a girl before Mona, never had sex
until he was forty-three, but oh he’d taken to it –
he’d taken to it like the proverbial duck to water.
When Mona had come to work at the hardware store
and let him slide his hand between her legs it was like
someone suddenly turned on a light bulb. Now she
had switched off the power. She was refusing to even
go to the movies with him, never mind sex.
“Get rid of Russell,” she’d said pursing her lips
in that way that Gordon didn’t much care for,
“and we’ll see.”

Get rid of Russell? Russell who loved a wee nip,
Russell who didn’t know the meaning of the word
closing time, Russell who had attached himself
to Gordon Foster like a tick, Russell the pooka and
not an ordinary-run-of-the-mill-Harvey-type-pooka
either, Russell the fox pooka, a very big fox pooka –
standing over seven feet tall when he was on his tippy toes
and needless to say Russell was always on his tippy toes.
Easy for Mona to say, get rid of Russell. As if he could
just get rid of Russell. As if you can just get rid of a pooka!
And besides, Gordon didn’t even know if he wanted to
get rid of Russell.

Russell had his faults - all pookas do - you can never be sure
if they’re telling lies and of course there is the drinking and the
tricks. Truth be told Russell was cunning and sly but he also
was wickedly charming in his foxy way. Oh, he was fun and
he had style. Everyone who met him, well, except for Mother
and Mona of course, liked him. He was a good friend
for all his failings.

Gordon sipped at his coffee turning Mona over in his mind.
Mona wasn’t to everybody’s taste, hell she wasn’t even
to his taste but at his age he had to take what he could get
and, God love her, Mother approved. Come to think of it
Mona was quite a bit like Mother, all knobs and angles,
eyes tiny as seeds, her hair snagged back into that tight
little bun she thought was so sophisticated. And thin!
she made his teeth ache, but she worked
hard and well, stingy as she was with it, there was the sex.

The trouble really started when Russell told Mona
that outrageous lie that Jeannie Walker the hairstylist
down to The Family Cut and Curls was trying to make time
with him. Jeannie Walker curvy and laughy, dressed
to the nines, auburn hair gleaming around her shoulders.
Unlike Mona, Jeannie always, always wore high heels.
Gordon loved this! Sometimes when she’d be cutting his hair
he’d sneak the back of his fingers against her legs... so sleek
and smooth in their nylon stockings.
A little heat gathered in his belly even as he thought of it.

And then there was that business with the Harley.
Gordon laughed out loud, causing some of the other
Starbuck’s patrons to look at him in alarm. He thought
of the look on Mona’s face when Russell told her that he,
Gordon William Foster had used their down-payment money
to put a deposit on a Harley, and not just any Harley but one
of those expensive new Fat Boys. Russell had clicked his
foxy teeth and told her the motorcycle was Black Cherry and
on the first nice day he and Gordon and Jeannie of course
were going to head off into the sunset.

Ahh daydreams. Who wouldn’t want Jeannie Walker
and who – even at his age - didn’t think about growing
a beard and riding off on a Harley.
God, Mother would have a fit!

A gypsy wind was gathering in the hills outside town
when Gordon stepped out of Starbucks; it brought
the smell of the far distant ocean into his nostrils.
He looked east, toward the hardware store where
Mother and Mona had gathered like a couple of black crows
on the sidewalk and then he looked west, down to the
Harley dealer where Russell stood on tippy toes,
the sun glinting off his red tail.

No one has seen Gordon. The Family Cut and Curls had to close
down because their favourite hair stylist has taken a powder.
And school children tell this fantastic story of a big fat motorcycle
whizzing by with a huge red fox standing on tippy toes
on the back fender.

Vroom Vroom.

2007-01-29T12:37:00.000-08:00

Sacrifices – anna hood

Someone gave me earrings
made from the ears of cod.
Wires loop though holes
in my ears, tie me to you
your luminous discs old as salt
shiver beside my face.

I listen suspended
in water green as youth
Baffin Island cold
beside dead Vikings. Jellyfish
beautiful and brilliant streaming hair
ride the current, drift toward Canada.
You follow Neptune
into nets tricked by the sun’s
chill spite, your bodies shadowless
as they drag you through
the skin of the sea
onto splintery wooden decks
that glitter with scales of your kind
the blood roar of shovels
scraping you into the hold.

No one hears your last gentle breath.

The olive oil is hot, smells of Greece
or Italy. I add garlic,
black olives, diced tomatoes, dill.
Your firm white flesh, sizzles.
The sacrificial earrings
bend forward touch my cheek.

2007-01-23T11:43:00.001-08:00

Herbivores ~~ anna hood ~~

He’s running again
the man on the TV.
I don’t pay him much mind
he’s been on before
when I’ve been busy
with my lunch
a magazine, the newspaper
but today as he’s running
there’s something …
and I watch.

He’s not fit, not in runner’s gear
splashy in bright neon
no expensive shoes.
He looks like somebody’s dad
a little fat, a little bald
and yet he’s running
as if he’s a deer

and out of the corner
of his herbivore eyes
he sees the lions

and he is running
as if he’s a lamb
again those herbivore eyes
see the wolves.

He’s running
as if the dark might
swallow him whole.

And I’m watching now
as he runs
runs runs
through junkyards of dead
cars and graveyards
past churches
and shops and schools
by train tracks huffing and puffing
his way past
shoppers or walkers, children
in strollers running and running
and I’m watching
him run run run.

Then the announcement:
‘Most sufferers of ALS lose
the use of their legs in two years.
What would you do?’

I’d run.

2007-01-19T06:58:00.000-08:00

Cowboys ~ anna hood ~

From now on I'm gonna keep
my promise forget you
bad boy
no dreamin for me
of old lovers specially you
specially you! your pretend wings
stolen from some old Indian Chief
leather smell
boots
no hat (what you thinking! )

when you come rappin
at my dreams some night
at 3 probly
when the moon's a hot copper
square on the bedroom floor
when the sheets are a tangle
roun my legs your arms wide
invitin me to dance
invitin me to Georges

c'mon you say lets go
down to the quarter down
where the old bluesmen live
c'mon babe we'll fly
I'll drop a dime
in the juke box B12
Patsy still lives
there in B12 you know
for a dime she kin
take you to heaven
c'mon babe I'll wear the hat
all endings are brutal
tomorrow's soon enough
for promises

2007-01-15T15:21:00.000-08:00

Thin Ice ~~ anna hood ~~

The Rideau Canal has opened
Do you know it?
Ottawa, Canada?
Doesn't matter
really. We skated there
when we were children
on Baccarat crystal
ice etched and scored
with secrets. Mummie,
we always called her that,
bare legs, great legs showing
them off, skating
a stream of black hair
twisting and whipping
young men following
like, well you know like what.

I won't tell you
her faults. I never told then
I won't now, the stamping,
the slamming the slapping
and some others
faults unmentionable
unforgivable
maybe but then
we won't speak of that.

But she could fly, my mum
down the Rideau Canal
twin blades slicing
secret patterns across the ice
her own fire blazing
red coat red
lips red hot heat
and us
in her shadow
her awkward brood
swanlings all
waiting to be beautiful.

I closed my eyes for a moment
and we're past it
past our prime
past being beautiful
(we never quite managed)
and she was gone
like this winter afternoon
like the deep mauve sky
hanging heavy
pregnant with unshed snow
just out of reach.

None of us skate.

2007-01-13T04:02:00.000-08:00

Gallerie Impressions ~~ anna hood ~~

They danced endlessly and forever, around and around
the painted ballroom. The ladies in silken jewel gowns,
lace at cuffs, pearls gleaming on slender necks.
The men formal, proper. Golden sparks from the candles
bounced across the dancers’ hair.

Each lunchtime, except when it rained, Jeff Symonds
sat on the stone bench in front of ‘Gallerie Impressions’
eating his sandwich and gazing into the window
at the dancers as they waltzed endlessly around
and around the light-spangled room.

The painting on display was recent but done in the manner
of the impressionists, light drenched, back lit, with moist
reflections. Bursting with colour.

He was a student of this painting, knew all its characters
by heart.He’d named them, given them jobs - in his mind
of course. Often at night, after his book store, The Last Edition,
closed he’d take his evening stroll, his Scotch
terrier Angus sedate at his side. He’d stop
at the gallery window and softly whistle a dance song.
He favoured old music and as often as not it would be
a sprightly Cole Porter tune. The dancers would change
pace, legs would kick in time to, ‘Anything goes,’
or perhaps, ‘You’re the top.’

The girl in the pink frock, standing alone, her head slightly tilted
as if she was listening, was his favourite. Jeff knew every curl
on her head, every fold in her dress. He knew her bra size,
that she wore flesh coloured panties. He’d felt the
silkiness of her inner thighs, knew that the curve of her hip
fit perfectly into his hand. Jeff knew all there was to know
about her. She smelled liked almonds.

Evenings he’d stand outside the gallery window dreaming
his head was in her hair, breathing in its auburn scent.
Lost in its gleam. Her name was Natalie. Jeff knew
she still lived at home with an elderly papa. Old money there...
not that Jeff was interested in her money.

He’d watch her smile at the dancers. Smile at her Papa
who stood, top hat in hand, as he talked with a young gentleman.
Gentleman hah!

Robert (Jeff prounouced it Ro-bear.) stood at the drinks table
beside crystal decanters bursting with painted highlights,
holding aloft a champagne glass, smug, a sly gleam
in his black eyes. That moustache! A bounder for sure.
A social climber! Trying to marry into her money.
A red rage washed Jeff crimson. He was just ready to take
his fist to him when Angus placed a paw on his leg.
Jeff bent down to the little dog, “Time to be getting home, boy?”
Then they’d make their way home where Jeff would go to bed
to dream dreams where Natalie would visit.

One evening in late April, as Jeff was passing by the gallery
Ro-bear deliberately, and with malice, turned his face to leer,
yes leer, at Natalie. It was too much for Jeff.
He scooped Angus into his arms and stepped into the picture.

The next day The Last Edition was closed. The sign on the front
door read: Gone dancing. No one noticed any changes
in the painting, that the man with his champagne glass raised
was missing, or that the girl who wore the pink frock
and smelled of almonds now danced with a gentleman
in modern dress, or that a little Scottie dog watched
from under the drinks table.

When the Cole Porter tune ended Jeff nuzzled Natalie’s
neck, "Let's go home, sweetheart," he said and whistled
for Angus. The music started, a Strauss waltz,
and the dancers once again began their endless
dance around the sun drenched room.

Now an artist has set up his easel in front of the art gallery.
His subject: The book store, The Last Edition. He’s painting it
in the manner of the impressionists. Back-lit with moist reflections.
Bursting with colour. Patrons sit in the window drinking espresso
and nibbling croissants as they turn the pages of their books.
A little Scottie dog sits on the front step beside a young woman
with auburn curls. She’s dressed in an old fashioned manner
in a pink frock. She rocks a baby in a carriage.

Soon this painting will be on display in the window
of Gallerie Impressions. And one of these days perhaps
a young man will sit on the stone bench and
watch as the woman endlessly rocks a baby in a carriage.
Perhaps he might imagine her name is Natalie. Perhaps
he’ll begin to imagine wicked things about
the man who watches her from the book store window
with a tender expression on his face.

Perhaps she’ll steal his breath away.

2007-01-09T14:09:00.000-08:00

Elvis is alive and well in New Mexico ~~ anna hood

She’s turned 70 discovered
- after all these years - she’s a night owl
gets up at noon.
Her midnight world is a lost and found
of oldies station, magazine dreams
and the shopping channel.
She asks for her discount
keeps vodka in the freezer
Jim Beam on the buffet.

When he died she was born
again, learned to drive
the old Buick, goes to The Bingo
nearly every night, wins sometimes
reads the Enquirer believes Elvis is living
somewhere in New Mexico.
She paints her eyes
her toenails, colours her hair
red. Fresh flowers in the bathroom.

Don’t cook now, likes Stouffers
mac and cheese, empties washed and stacked
on the top shelf, bags of candies
along with quarters and nickels
in a drawer beside the sink
for the kids. Phone never stops.
Girlfriends in flowered dresses
bring pizza and beer.

Got a kitten, calls him Timothy
he scratches the sofa. She don’t care.
He likes her Joan Rivers
earrings, her painted toes
He never steals the crossword puzzles
don’t mind when she whistles.
Nobody told her
old age could be good.

2007-01-05T10:07:00.000-08:00

Max ~~ anna hood

These days I feel
I’m only a shadow
iridescent as mist
an echo of old Stones
songs an invisible woman
speaking foreign tongues.
Silent as a fish.
Quiet as the dead.

Night thoughts are not
day thoughts and in winter
words tremble at the edge
of sleep messages
heavy with the smell of cold
heavy with regret
forgotten ideas
for things said or not said
thick with sadness.
Friends appear on indigo wings
now and again but mostly
drift by on a sea of past years.
Sometimes they die.

Flying is not all
it’s cracked up to be.
Damn hard work
mostly repetition
lungs pumping
with only the sound
of wings and voices
like broken mirrors
sliding between stars
dead planets
and words hurled in anger
never to be reeled in.
Sometimes you see the earth
as you’re falling.

An old friend died
the other day
burning a hole in the sky
taking with him his thoughts
his music, a violin perhaps
an organ playing Bach
shimmery in the cobweb corners
of my mind or maybe
its my own voice
crying.

We never slept together
I wish we had.

2006-12-31T11:03:00.000-08:00

2006-12-20T05:32:00.000-08:00

I have a house full of company
so can't be around much for a bit.

Blogger is giving me heaps of trouble.
I have tried to comment on each
and every blog I visit to wish you guys,
who have become so dear to me,
a happy and wonderful Christmas season
but couldn't, so here it is:

to all of you
Happy Holidays!!

2006-12-15T07:24:00.000-08:00

Thin Air ~~ anna hood ~~

I’m up here alone
so high so high
above the speckled
blue bay
my tight rope wobbly
my words glass thoughts
tangled around the rivers
of my wrists.

Around my neck
an amber pendant
for luck a slice of time
a few gentle phrases
by Brahms or a lullaby
in air so thin so thin
in the blue eye of heaven.

I once heard of a man
who wore strung from his neck
small blue bottles
that clinked and clanked
as he walked in his sheet of glass
a glimpse of blue
in the eye of God.

I’m up here alone
so high so high
in unshed snow
in cheesecloth air
the man’s shimmery coat
a glimpse of blue.

2006-12-11T14:17:00.000-08:00

Wolf ~~ anna hood ~~

Sometimes,
just before dawn
when aspens quiver
with the first breath of day
I hear them
my brothers, as they cry
their unknown names to the wind.

I leave my nest of down
leave my warm place where words gather
into clumps of futile thoughts
where Vivaldi’s notes tremble
among spider plants that line my window
where paint tubes hold unspilled portraits
of burnished suns or peonies lush
and fleshy as plump bathers
and I go out into the dawn
where the gaunt landscape shivers.
I shed my soft woman body
leave my conscience
my useless guilt and worry at the door
join them in the hunt.

They’re there, outlined
against the glowering sky
tongues lolling from smiling mouths.
Raindrops cling to their ruffs, their tails
the wild scent of them.
The pups, there are 2,
nearly grown and eager, yip with excitement.
We’re hungry, bellies tucked tight
against our ribs.
We touch noses
then we’re off, our legs tireless
strong.

We travel an ageless path
along a sharp ridge where the wind slices
slivers of pewter clouds
hangs them in spruce trees.
Rock cliffs rise in layered pastels.
The purple and gold meadow
blooms with cellophane petaled buttercups
and violets. Fox kitts play.
We drink from the spring where the river is born.
The sun comes out heat shimmers
in rainbows across the valley.
The miles pass. Our hunger grows.

And then we find them
a small herd of caribou rest in a clearing.
We crouch low, heads down
bellies scraping the earth
as we circle downwind until
until it is too much to bear and one of us
with a golden tongue starts the race.
The earth pounds
with their heartbeats, with ours.
An old cow falls behind.
In seconds we are on her.
Three of us slash her hind legs, two her throat.
It is quick; she is ready,
ready to give us this bounty
ready to meld with us and become us.
She drops to her knees as her heart bleeds
its gift into our mouths.

We stop our race
we drop our heads and eat.
Teeth tear into still warm red meat.
Blood stains our muzzles; our belly fills.
After, we the pack, roll on our backs
in the morning sun.

And I have no conscience.
And I have no guilt.
And I know I will never
be the same again.

2006-12-10T06:26:00.000-08:00

Forests for Bernita ~ anna hood ~

Last night as I lie
all snugged up in my envelope
of down and silk, I decided
to visit the green vistas
of my mind. It’s been awhile.
I’d track down Diana
or Artemis or whatever she calls herself.
(that girl has a dozen names)
She hunts in the East quadrant;
we’d catch up on things.

Imagine my surprise
read that Dismay! or even Horror!
when I found no wild green forests
no flowing streams
or cypress. No stags, No does
just a barren place
of rock and heat and dust.

But Diana was still there racing
her 2 fleet desert hounds,
her Salukis, the pale bitch
Dawn, the dark male Dusk.
My god, those names! I used to think
use a little originality
but over the years, well
I’ve grown used to them.

Anyway I found her Diana
or Artemis
at the southernmost tip of Ursa Major
She pointed a finger at me
(she’d had time for a manicure, I noticed)
‘This is all your fault,’ said she.
‘Why mine?’ I queried, all innocence.
‘Do you think this place stays green
and lush without some upkeep?
Do some homework.
Quit reading that mystery junk
read something worthwhile
or pick up a paintbrush
for god sake.

The dogs pranced and tugged
snapping at the bear
ear leathers whipping, tail feathers flipping.
And then she was gone
just like that, never looking back
leaving me wondering
Is this the end?
But after a bit
I noticed in the cup
her heel had made
the soil had grown moist
and tiny seedlings
were stretching up
up into the light.

so maybe not.

2006-12-09T06:53:00.000-08:00

Saturday Night ~anna hood~

His shadow, lungs near exploding
enters first. Unsteady pointed toes ballet
across the sill on a river of Scotch.

She’s crouched
behind the door
plastic sacs bulging, horns
hidden inside pink foam
rolls of hair. Yards of chenille
cover legs that end
in cloven hooves.

Clutching shoes, he weasels in
peering ‘round corners
ears straining, nostrils
flared, sniffing through furniture
polish, onions, cat box odours
for wifely scents.
Claps, silently. Grins. Safe
thinks he, the old bag sleeps.
This, is when she springs

from behind her door.
Pretending innocence.
‘What time is it anyway?
Is it late? Just woke,’
lies she, grinding pointed teeth.
‘I just got up to warm
some milk.’ O acid sweet.
Pupils a slit
in yellow eyes.

Fuzzled brain still doing the mambo
with Johnny Walker
rocks and rolls, reels
from cerebrum to cerebellum
hop scotches with answers
thinks a good offence
et cetera et cetera, says in a macho
slur, ‘I am the man here
and will goddamn well do
as I please.’

The Chenille Mountain erupts
spewing shirts, pants
shoes, ties, words
and him into a tumble
in the yard
Bang! goes the door.

Then weeps
as she watches him slow dance
in his closet on the lawn.

2006-12-06T10:12:00.000-08:00

Teachers ~~ anna hood ~~

He taught her his language.
She learned his words
her mouth full
of them breaking
her teeth as she swallowed.

Later, choking shame
them clicking
pictures a blood shot
bullseye right between
her legs
her shattered battered head
combing – my God!
swabbing scraping
not even whispering
‘a few tests for venereal disease
HIV.'

‘I’d have fought;
why didn’t you fight?
her mother.
Her friend,
‘I’d have screamed
Did you scream?’
as he held the knife at her throat.
Then the police: ‘well how?
and did you?
are you sure?
have you ever?'

Her man couldn’t touch her.
He’d pat her thin shaky self
like an old hound or brush
her cheek with a cold
hard mouth.
One day he left
‘Can’t deal with it.’ Him
whole as he could be left her
tipping off balance.
Transparent.
Invisible.
Alone.

Chained days turn
into weeks into months
shackled between walls of
whys without answers.
A trembling branch
against a three o’clock window
can shake her world, race
her heart, flood
her face, her nightgown
with salt, her skin
pale as wet tissues.

He still thinks of her.

She knows.

2006-12-04T05:52:00.000-08:00

Walking on Water ~~ anna hood

I float roses on the snow.
The wind catches them
tosses them onto the bed
where Oriental poppies sleep
like you.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I whisper,
‘it is only the wind.’
It lifts my skirt
the poplar trees shiver.
‘Shall I sing for you
as I scatter petals on your grave?’

This morning I sat
in your chair. You’d look
out the window when you’d write
watch the birds. They still wait for you
with your bucket of seed.
You knew their names, their calls;
you could read the map of the sky
painted on their wings.

In my wallet – photos
a lock of hair – a wish.
My hair is short now
some grey, the colour of a nuthatch,
mixed into the blonde.
You’d like it, I think.

Do you know
there are eight million Shinto deities,
That sometimes now I walk on water?
Do you know I miss you?

2006-12-01T09:56:00.000-08:00

The Sock Monkey and The Ballerina ~ anna hood ~

The sock monkey had been asleep
for a long long time.
He didn’t know exactly how long
but he knew it was very, very long.
But he hadn’t been alone. Oh no.
Miss Minette the most beautiful ballerina
in the whole wide world was sleeping
right there beside him.
The sock monkey loved Miss Minette!
He didn’t mind that she was nearly bald
and that her tutu was raggedy.
She was kind and sweet
and she always made him laugh.

And Miss Minette didn’t care
that he was missing an eye.
She often told him he was her knight
in shining armour. The sock monkey
didn’t know what shining armour was;
he only knew it was something good.

One day, so very long ago, Emily
had hugged him and wrapped him
in a fluffy blanket and gently
put him into the box beside Miss Minette.
“Go to sleep now.”

Before they went to sleep they talked
about Emily, how they loved her
long silky blonde hair and
how her giggle made them happy.
They said, “There is nobody
in the whole wide world
who smells as sweet as Emily.”

One morning, after so very long,
the Sock-Monkey felt himself moving.
“It's time. Miss Minette, wake up!”

Then, the box-top was lifted
and the darkness disappeared.
Emily was there; she was all grown up!
“I have somebody I want you to meet, but first
we must get you ready.”
And she sewed shiny black button-eyes
on the Sock-Monkey and dressed Miss Minette
in a frilly new pink tutu.

This is Katherine,” she said, and she put them
into a cradle with a brand new baby.

“She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
asked the Sock-Monkey.

Miss Minette agreed, “Yes. She smells sweeter
than anybody in the whole wide world and her hair
is just like mine.”

2006-11-29T05:48:00.000-08:00

Waiting ~~ anna hood ~~

Four o'clock: nearly dark
night in the afternoon.
Winter darkness.
The dogs whine for one last run.
I get my jacket.
In the field beside the house
mouse trails scribble back and forth
across pale blonde grass.
Hundreds of crows returning home
to Victoria Park blacken the sky.
They are either hated or loved
no neutral.
I like 'em.

The dogs three little terriers
two sleek, one fat and hairy
put up a raft of black ducks.
We pause for a second on the dock
these dogs and I
watch the ducks, watch
the sea slide her slick skin
over the rocks, sighing as she retreats.
I sit in the splintery
paint-peeling Adirondack chair
under the old floor lamp I've hauled
down from the house.
The corona of pink silk shade trembles
her fringes.

It's a fire hazard, I know.
Extension cords linked
together like words
in a poem, snake their way
across the yard, over the dandelions
and crab grass and creeping charlie
that we call a lawn
their joints bristling with electicity.
Sometimes there are sparks.

The dogs race up and down
the silvery boards. I sit
in the pale pink light
and wait for winter.

It always comes.

2006-11-24T05:31:00.000-08:00

Come Dance With Me -- anna hood --

'Come dance with me, my girl,' Pa’d say
sweeping Ma up into his arms.
'Ye empty headed git,' she’d shrill
cloutin him alongside his ear,
her little feet kicking at his shins.
'I’ve the dinner goin.'

My sister Colleen would turn up the radio
and we’d skip and clap around
the two of them as they spun like moths
in the yellow kitchen light.

Ma’s hand would creep, gentle-like
up around Pa’s neck.
He’d head for the stairs, her in his arms,
flinging words at us over his shoulder.
'I’ve something to show your Ma.
Watch the supper.'

We’d tiptoe up; listen at the door.
Colleen’d whisper,
'They’re doin it.'
Us giggling behind our hands.
Pa’d come roarin out, holdin his pants closed
catch the three of us racin for the stairs.
'Git down there the bunch of ye.'

'And don’t let that supper burn,'
Ma’d holler from the bed.
Course it did.
The tatties’d scorch n stick
and the sausages’d turn to cinders
fillin the kitchen with smoke.

They’d come down; Ma’s eyes shinin.
Fingers busy
with her hair. Pa laughin,
'You lot! The supper’s done for.'

We’d be sent to the chip truck… a treat.
Comin home the smell of vinegar’d
tease our noses. Our fingers’d
sneak into the brown paper, shiny
with grease. Steal a few.

Sometimes now when the Big Galoot and I
are fighting for the sink in the morning,
Ma’s soft green eyes smile
out at me from the mirror.
I touch his neck, say,
'Come, dance with me,'
and laugh from the bed
as breakfast burns.

2006-11-21T10:02:00.000-08:00

Ghosts -- anna hood

As the first sun
trailing slivers of orange
falls into my blue mug
an old song shimmers
off the radio.
The melody eases itself
into that achy spot
I can't bear
to touch and although
I push it away
it catches hold.

I leave the dogs twitching
dreaming of rabbits in a blanket
of light, leave the house
breathing cinnamon and coffee
leave the still life
waiting to be painted
a couple of Chinese pairs
(you used to love them)
a bowl of tangerines,
the house too thick
with memories
too heavy with ghosts
of old songs
old loves

bundle into that old brown jacket
still kept on a hook in the hall
(do you remember
the one with a rip in the sleeve?)
In the pocket keys to a car
I no longer own, keys to the house
though the locks are changed
a lined sheet of paper
with scribbled sketches
of gulls.

Green wellies tramp the sleeping pasture
past stunted skeleton trees
past the fallen down fish shack
where the vixen suns on the roof
past sweet marsh grass
that elbows her way through
cellophane ice
to the beach
glittering a savage beauty.

Waves all white and glory
leap from the cliff
spatter Cyrillic poems
birds have written
with webbed leather toes.
Once a heart was here
scraped with a stick.

I wish ...
ah the hell with it.

2006-11-16T15:13:00.000-08:00

The Majestic ~~ anna hood ~~

The Majestic: open at 5
to rain
red vinyl booths
a counter with stools
donuts under a dome
of plastic, smelling of coffee
bacon and toast
wet wool, wet newspapers
brown puddles.

Elena, young wife hustling
glasses of liquid sun
cups of day starter
flying with empty plates
plastic buckets of silverware,
wiping formica tabletops with a grey rag,
swooshing crumbs from skinny booth seats.

Nick behind his window
curtained with clothes pegs
where pale green order slips dangle
spatulas flying from each hand
buttering toast
flipping pancakes
swirling eggs into a golden
whirlpool, shouts
'Pick em up
come on my lovelies
pick em up
eggs over easy
fried ham sandwich on brown
pancakes and sausage.
Pick em up.
Pick em up.'

Suddenly!
He roars out into the throng
of morning diners
a green slip smashed between fat fingers
'what sum bitch want this?'
spit flies , 'French toast, not overcooked'
A cinnamon coloured sum bitch
stands, 'hey Nick you old bastard!'
An old friend - a quick embrace
kisses on both cheeks
then Nick returns behind his window.
Elena clatters empty cups.
The lovelies pick em up
eggs over easy, pancakes,
fried ham sandwiches.

8 AM the sun breaks through
spatters my coffee with morning.

2006-11-14T10:59:00.000-08:00

Swimming to Peru ~~~ anna hood ~~~

Last night I was dreaming
or perhaps I was writing
a poem about swimming
in the river
your river that cuts
the marble hills in two.
(They say it flows all the way
to Peru) You were there
promising me a ride
on your boat, Queen Mary
tied to the dock below
the big house, Alcatraz
hunkered down behind sentinel pines.
Look up. Look way up.
Your mother's there working
lurking on her web
hair battleship grey
blue blood beating her temple
lips thinning to nothing
against her serrated tongue
splintering her martini
-very dry dear with a twist-
glass.

Anyway in this dream - or poem -
I was swimming
shiny phosphorescent as a rainbow
trout chasing the silver spoon
your threw
spinning twisting
snaking breaking
the water where money flowed
where I swam.
I rose to the bait
didn't see the line
but felt the bite
like a black widow's
when you bagged me.

Damn Incas.

2006-11-10T10:18:00.000-08:00

Still ~~ anna hood

Rain on the tin roof
makes him remember
as do the shivering poplars
that line the lane.
Their long sepia shadows
twine his legs
as he sits evenings
under their branches.
The one-eared grizzled tom
she'd found starving
in the barn keeps him company.

She'd painted them, the poplars.
At dusk their outstretched wrists
hold the sky
and pale birds, their gleaming breasts
swollen with song that wake him
when daylight is still
a foreign country.
The painting, now above
the fireplace, the ghosty smell
of turpentine turns his blood
to tar.

Her voice
in the sea sound of a shell
the sadness of some horn
wailing a blues song
down on the delta
in their daughter's laugh
sets his heart careening
into the wind that wrestles the clouds
she painted.

He was full of her
like a religion.
Like a beautiful song of faith.
He wanted to enfold her
forever in his arms
his wings
but one summer morning
the air shifted her last breath
into a thousand molecules
haloes of golden light.

The cat paces
waits for her return
still in her thrall.

2006-11-07T11:47:00.000-08:00

On The Stroll ~~ anna hood

Let me paint you the scene:
The moon a frozen amber pendant
street lamps a gauze
of night fog.
The light on the corner blinks.
Nailed onto a retaining wall
a sign - 4X8 splintered plywood
blares its crimson message:
Jesus Saves!! Find him NOW!!
Across the bottom inticate
and beautifully drawn
in lime and grape dayglo
a clue to Jesus' parentage,
what he does to his mama
the posse he runs with
the size of his privates
small - is XXed out
then the correction in black
LARGE - Very Very Large.

On the stroll
on dark greasy pavement
safe in the armour
of her terrible beauty
Scarlet (her mother calls
her Jane, her neighbours call
her Ho) stuts in loose knots
with others of her kind
as they ply their trade at 64th and 10th.
Six Johns a night, eight if she's lucky
and quick, keeps her head
above water.

Cars cruise, bass throbbing
like a vein, window eyes tugging
the short vinyl skirt
the fake fur jacket.
Her sixteen year old hips
sway ripe. Good teeth
show in her smile.
Legs like a runner.
A gold Camaro stops. 'Hey Baby.'
Scarlet Jane says,
'You lookin for some fun?'
Her hair a halo of mist
her lips a ruby blur
as painted fingertips cross
her heart.

2006-10-20T11:23:00.000-07:00

Since then ~~ anna hood

Since then
the object of night
is to simply get through.
No spinning
no rearing, no prancing
a wild mustang
hooves sparking
a stone mountain.
These nights not even the gentle cantor
of a golden mare.
Not for me sleep walking
in a sheet of memories.

Two-thirty I wake
with an explosion
of champagne bubbles
on my tongue a cloud
of jasmine perfume in my hair.
It's only a dream
a dream of champagne
flutes on balconies
balconies draped in flowers
drenched with the sound
of horns
the sound of the French Quarter
at midnight.
Dinner at NOLA's.
Do you remember I licked
whipped cream
from your fingers.
We were young then.

Five o'clock the first
whistle of a bird.
You're beside me
your face creased
by the spread.
Lashes thick as a girl's
hide your eyes
hide your lies.
I could almost
love you again
almost
but I move away
quietly wary as the vixen
who comes for my offerings
of kitchen scraps.
Quietly I move away
on the ends
of my scarlet toes,
no longer young but then
who is?

Only her.

2006-10-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

Right Minds ~~ anna hood

We'd ring him
savage little bastards
arms spinning windmills
beside our ears
callin names
ye daft bugger
feeble minded idjit
yer touched in the head
me ma said you were
dropped at birth
with half yer brains missin

He'd cry
big gawp wide
so's we could see his tonsils
tears streelin two clean lines
down his cheeks
sometimes he'd piss hisself
givin us another torment

Callin for his ma

She'd come runnin
with her broom
thinkin she could sweep
us away
black sweater flappin
red face
hair in pins
screechin threats
I'll tell yer ma
ye'll be in for it then
she'll take the switch
to yer skinny backsides

We'd race off secure
in our right minds
and watch her
touch his hair
her big lout of a son
and make things right.

2006-10-01T04:05:00.000-07:00

I shall be gone for a couple of weeks.
My sister is coming from Toronto -- (HOORAY at last company I love)
and we are going to Cape Breton,
a niece has a new baby boy
maybe we'll join the leafers and do the Cabot Trail
then spend a few days in Halifax.
I'll catch up when I get back.
Behave yourselves while I'm away.
toodles!

2006-09-29T08:39:00.000-07:00

The Harvest ~~ anna hood

On paydays when Pa didn't come home
Ma's high heels would beat a tattoo
from stove to back door as she flung
our supper into the yard.
Out would go the fish
the tatties and peas.
Pots, plates, forks and knives
heaved into the yellow porch light.
The dogs - we had 4 -
grinned on those Friday nights.

'The lot of you off to bed,' Ma'd say.
We'd climb into bed dirty,
little girl giggles ringin' from our tongues
free from the hated fish
free from the bath with the dreaded shampoo
Ma's fingers scrapin' and clawin' our heads
and us screechin' with the pain and shame of it all.
She'd holler up at us,
'I'll be up there after ye if ye don't quit
with yer carryin' on.' We'd cover our mouths
snortin' and chokin' with laughin'.

Pa'd come down the lane roarin' with the drink
singin' in his sweet tenor voice, some
sweet Irish tune that reminded him of home.
She'd be on him the minute his hand touched the door
cryin' and wailin' to beat the band.
Him full of apologies.
We'd listen from our big bed
knowing his hand
all callused and gentle
was strokin her hair
drying her eyes.
And promisin'
'By God! it'll never happen again my girl.
I swear.'

She'd forgive him of course
and later
after their laughter and murmurs stopped
we, my sisters and I, would sit
on the floor, elbows on the sill
watching the two of them
like faerie folk in the moonlight
harvesting pots and dishes
from the yard.

2006-09-27T08:48:00.000-07:00

This is my entry to Sam Wright's blog about his sister Jacquie
What a tender and enchanting idea. It spurred my imagination.
I was going to put a link here but I'll be damned if I can figure
out how to do it. but here is the address. I hope you will
all send him something. I can't wait to read the entries!

http://jacquies-journal.blogspot.com/

Hi Sam, I just got a phone call from my friend Anna. She said
you were looking for some stories about your sister Jacquie and
asked if I might have something you’d be interested in.
You know, I used to have Jacquie and Anna over for tea
about once a month.

Here’s a an old journal entry of the first time I met your sister.
I hope you can read my scribble.
And here’s their picture, that’s my Henry with them.
You may keep it if you like. I have an album full.

Sunday June 27th 1968

Oh fun fun day! This morning I called to invite my little
Anna for tea and she said asked if it would be okay if she
brought her girlfriend. Of course I said YES!

I spend all morning, worked like a dog, in that dining room
until it just gleamed. I dressed the table with Mummie’s
hand embroidered linen cloth. She’d be so proud to see
that room sparkling with her good china on that beautiful cloth.
The peonies are gorgeous this year and I arranged a
bouquet in the cut glass vase.

I was bathed and in my good navy silk when promptly
at three the doorbell rang. Henry and I invited
them in. He wore his purple feather boa –
kids get such a kick out of that silly old dog - and of course
he danced and sprang and leaped. I swear sparks flew
from his feet.

Anna must have told her friend that high tea is a dress up
affair as their mothers had them polished and garnished in
party dresses, their stick legs circled in lace, patent shoes
glossy as tar. Jacquie, this is the friend, holds out her hand
just like a duchess and get this, this kid is only six years old,
says my name is Jacquie – spelled the French way. She is missing
her two front teeth and has a delightful lisp. Her long hair
simply speaks of gardens. She observed the room and
said, ‘you have a gorgeous home.’ This kid is six!

My guests were careful not to clink or drip while sipping
honeyed tea, and crunching chocolate chip cookies. Jacquie
especially loved the ones with the tiny pieces of orange peel.
Puccini… not intrusive…played in the background. Henry, that
silly old dog threw his head back and wailed a soprano
accompaniment with Joan Sutherland. Jacquie raised
one eyebrow of disapproval. Apparently she has good taste in music.
We sipped and crunched around talk of puppies and kittens.
(they both would like a pet).

Tea finished I invited them into my closet:
Anna must have told about this little ritual as decorum
vanished as they raced for the prize: my red high heels!
I thought we might have a little bit of a todo as Anna
pounced on them first. I gave her that look only an
old maid school teacher has (good grief in this me!)
and she handed them over to our special guest then chose
the silver sling backs and even though I whispered to her
that they were much more expensive than the red ones a
tiny tear trembled on her lashes. Oh well that little
disappointment might make some of the bigger ones along
the way easier to bear. ‘It will be your turn, next time,’
I said. ‘Now come on it’s makeup time!

I think perhaps Jacquie’s mother might not approve
as the child looked a bit shocked as I painted blushed and
mascaraed Anna’s face. But not for long, she raised her
little face and I soon had her matching her friend.
They smiled their approval.

‘Now, get the loot,’ I said. Anna teetered off into the
closet and dragged out that pillowslip filled with the treasure.
Good Grief all that costume jewelry that Mummie brought home
from all those auctions she went to over the years.
I keep saying I’m going to have a yard sale and get
rid of all that junk but I don’t know if I could bear it.

They each took a corner and dumped! The bed sparkled with
rubies and diamonds and gold. Jacquie got the tiara, to go
with the red shoes. Anna the long ‘sapphire’ earrings.

Last week I was busy altering some of those fancy old nighties
for dress up. If I do say so myself they are quite enchanting
with the fronts cut short – I thought I might go blind hemming!
- and the backs trailing. Our old lace curtains from the house
on Elm St. were veils. So cute! When they were all gussied up we had
a fashion show with lemonade on the patio. I took their picture
posing beside the peonies with Henry. I hope it turns out.

Now they are gone, those darling, darling children; it seems
they’ve taken the light with them. Oh well I guess Henry will have to do.
He’s sitting there waiting patiently with his leash.

Goodnight Diary.

2006-09-25T06:33:00.000-07:00

Anniversary ~~ anna hood

One headlamp pointed upward
sliced a merciless iron sky.
Moths skittered the yellow light
danced Foxy Ladies to a siren's blare.
Jimi Hendrix music bled
from the wounded car
a beetle in the ditch
tires spinning.
Cops in blue, faces
tight. One said, over and over
My God, my God
they're just kids. Another
Irish brogue, For Jasus sake
turn off that fekkin radio.

Onlookers stopped to gawk
fingered crosses, wiped tears
trampled stiff orange tongues
of Indian paintbrush, gave guilty
thanks it wasn't one
of their daughters 17 years old
like three piles of rumpled laundry
one shiny black, one blue, the other
red long legs narrow as veins
cluttering the blacktop.

Fir trees, ghosty in the gloom
paused their shiver
folded their branches
and listened
to the last silent laughter
of silly drunken girls.

Indian Paintbrush a wildflower
dyes my yard this time of year.
Reminds me of
Marsha, Steff, Patty
Foxy Ladies.

2006-09-21T14:48:00.000-07:00

Old Loves ~~ anna hood

Her old man don't know
she braids 'em in her hair
ties each one behind
a shiny gold bead.
Hundreds of 'em.

Her old man don't know
she keeps 'em in her pockets
hidden among Tic Tacs
grocery lists
lint.

He don't know
they swim the crimson
pathways of her legs
and arms, that they part
the secret spot
he can't find.

She lets them out
at night when it's dark
enough to die
her skin technicolour
bright
brazen as a peacock.

They kiss her
with wine hot lips
phantom tongues lick
her sweet juices.

Her old man grunts
reaches for her.
She sighs, tucks them away
her fingertips glowing
like pearls in the dark.

2006-09-20T11:05:00.000-07:00

I have been sent this questionaire thing 3 times in as many days
I never do them but in this case - well these gals are pretty special
so here goes:

1. One book that changed your life?

Anne of Green Gables - I read it when I was about 8 and fell madly
in love with Anne and reading! I've never stopped.
(sometimes to the dismay of my husband)
Now I'd like to strangle Anne. Her freckled face smiles back at me from licence
plates and god know how many signs but never ever can I forget
her author Lucy Maude Montgomery for giving me the wonderful gift
of reading.

2. One book you have read more than once?

I have a long list but a favourite would be 'The English Patient'
I am mad about Michael Ondaatje - His poem The Cinnamon Peeler
is my most favourite poem of all times
Here is it: A treat
for those of you who know it
and for those of you who don't

THE CINNAMON PEELER by Michael Ondaatje
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.

3. One book you would want on a desert island?

Raft Buiding for Dummies maybe or Long Distance Swimming for Dummies
but then of course I'd also need, 'How to Fend off Sharks'

4. One book that made you cry?

Airs about the Ground by Mary Stewart. I can feel tears pricking
my eyes even now as I think about it. In a nutshell:
Someone steals one of the Lippizaner Stallions.
Years later in a far away pasture this old piebald horse (He has been dyed)
is seen dancing to circus music.
Finally he is returned to his stable where fresh bedding is waiting
and his name is still over the door.
Ooh and can I ever forget Black Beauty?!

5. One book that made you laugh?

almost anything by John Irving.. any of the Reginal Hill, Pascoe and Dalziel
detective series

6. One book you wish had been written?

Harry Potter - can you imagine my bank acct??

7. One book you wish had never been written?

none I guess.. hate stuff maybe

8. One book you are currently reading?

A new Swedish detective series I have found by Ake Edwardson

9. One book you have been meaning to read?

I have a list a mile long but sitting waiting is:
The Professor and the Madman - Simon Winchester
A Natural History of the Senses - Diane Ackerman
2 mysteries by Eliz George
and another by Robert Wilson -- (he will be 1st)

2006-09-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

4:30 AM ~~ anna hood

The wind’s sharp elbows
rips open the envelope of sky
ruffles the neck feathers of
crows that are strung
along the branch of the old white ash.
They’re watching
eyes glinting like mad Russians
waiting for dawn, waiting
to pick the bones of the careless.
An old tom passes, dragging
his shadow through the greasy yellow light
that spills off the back porch.

The crows watch over the woman
prowling before first light
her chenille robe dripping dew
dripping smells, blood and puke, piss
liquor.
Her face a watercolour, smashed rubies
blue and green, indigo.
Overhead an owl carries a small piece
of pulsing grey fur.

Inside he’s sleeping
all snug in his nest his face
as creased and folded as a lizard.
His dragon
tattoo curled around his throat.
Uncut. Unhurt.
Sleeping the sleep of the just.
Easy for him.
Yes, easy for him.

‘Don’t cry. Don’t,’
she whispers, lips puffed.
Then she bends and throws a pebble.
Dawn breaks into tiny pieces
of shiny black birds.

2006-09-17T07:35:00.000-07:00

Let Me Tell You About the Dark ~~ anna hood

It's raining again
the moon sliding
into the sea.
Her white darkness
filling the bay
coating the wet thighs
of the river bank
slipping over the
cave made by the broken pines.
It slides across the skin
of the pond over the still
sleeping koi.

The night is full of archangels
their terrible white wings
rouged with night.
Do you hear them?
Michael's sword
clashing at unseen evils
and owls, bats slipping
from level to level
radar pinging off
jagged spangled stars
that float in the path
of ghosts.

I'm never afraid in the dark
afraid like some people
that every speck of them
might disappear
even their shadow
swallowed up
because this is when he comes
and takes me
his arms hard and smooth
as a piece of washed beach glass.
And he kisses me
his throat a vibrating cello.
He steals my breath.

Now tell me
what do you know
about the dark?

2006-09-15T09:11:00.000-07:00

Self Portrait ~~ anna hood

I am swimming
in my self portrait
swimming in a navy blue sea blue
green with icebergs.
Someone once called them cathedrals
of the deep. It wasn't me
although I wish it was. Probably Merwin
it sounds like him.

Around me the navy sea bristles
with the clash of Viking swords.
Thor sends boxcars of sound
swinging from his giant hammer
beating time with whale songs
belugas, the white singers
canaries of the St Lawrence
heavy with toxins
heavy with warning
sweet faced Belugas
singing their song.

Above me
in an aura borealis sky
the dog star, Sirius
migrates south across
the rainbow bowl of the sky
vibrating with the trumpets
of swans, and the whistles
of swans, and the mute
swans who do not speak
except with their singing
wings.

In this self portrait
I am swimming
Icebergs melting
onto my dining room floor.

2006-09-13T12:29:00.000-07:00

Wind Chimes ~~ anna hood

Remember Saree,
remember nights after he'd gone
how you'd perch high
above, on your balcony in the trees
and whistle, 'Coast is clear. Come over.'
and I'd come

Taking the stairs two
at a time. For a moment, just
a moment, in the liquid
green tree-top, our lips
would print secrets on crystal
glasses and we'd swirl
wine red as Satan. Horned
owls would listen and somewhere far
off in the night a wild dog
would bark. Later

We'd lie
on your smooth white bed and eat
biscotti. You'd feed me bits
of wine drenched cookies - I'd suck
your fingers while we listened to the dead
singer you liked wailin' bluesy
from the radio, her whiskey voice circling
the ceiling with painted gold stars, mixing
with our smoke, her magnolia voice dripping
onto us, onto the white ironed sheets. Your leg
on mine. Cinnamon on cream.

It's been twenty years. Twenty
years since you fed me cookies
soaked in wine. Twenty
years since those tree-top nights.
I still want you.

2006-09-02T11:13:00.000-07:00

Come Visit Me ~~ anna hood

Come visit me here
on the Island we'll sit
under the overhang
of the back veranda
where citronella candles gutter
in their own melt
in widowed saucers
and pickle jar lids
in red and white soup cans
where overhead burned out stars
implode undetected
by the radar of swooping
brown bats

Come to me when
darkness falls
when spiders are busy
weaving webs of dew
the dog will snore
under the porch swing
the river will reach her arm
into the baywhere fisher boats
tug crusty tethers
you'll swallow salt
swallow the silence
the scent of the flowering
mock orange bush
my grandmother planted
swallow my neighbours'
bar-b-q smoke
they'll invite you over

I don't like Toronto hot
with noise melting black tar
roads thick with cars
windows up ACs blasting
stereos blaring
dead elms
and exhaust fumes
What do you know
city slicker
of freshly mown hay
sweet clover where red hens
strut and cluck
scratch for beetles
of horses racing snorting
pawing red clay roads
and cows chew cuds
chlorophyll green?

Come visit me
on a soft Island night
you can return the book
I loaned you
ten years ago.

2006-08-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

Stone Angels ~~ anna hood

There is an aura of suicides
in this place, too many dead
too many shattered hearts
shattered heads
scattered
ashes that litter my sky
like a scribble of inky
letters

I've heard of angels
heard their voices
wind chimes
a filigree of crystal notes
a Peruvian flute
that travels a trade wind
a magic carpet of sound

yes I've heard of angels
and their wings of sorrow
raven birds tethered
to a burned out star
a blackened star tucked
under a feathered wing a stone
angel who weeps at your head
I heard her whisper
Are you happy?

This then is for you.

2006-08-21T13:40:00.000-07:00

Whale Songs - anna hood

No longer do you decorate
your hair with raven feathers,
or garland your neck with shells -
sandy still - smelling
of Tracadie Bay.
You used to.

You’d come for me at lunchtime,
the bruised van a blight
on the Sister’s eyes. ‘Get in,’
you’d say, ‘I’ve brought a picnic.’
We’d lurch away - you clumsy
with the gears – a black feather
bobbing in your red hair, laughin
all the way to the beach.

We’d spread our ragged chunk
of plaid on the rocky shore, dig
bare heels into the sand, face
the corduroy sea, the salty wind
sand-blasting our cheeks,
our winter-white legs. We’d
sit close, arms touching, scarf
bologna sandwiches slathered
with yellow mustard.

Off shore, whales might breach or sing
and seagulls in kindergarten blue
skies would wheel and scream.
On shore, crabs would scuttle
sideways, crumbs of wonder
bread clenched in pincher claws.

You might tell stories – silly
stuff – how you rode across
Niagara Falls on a motorcycle,
or traveled those same falls
in a barrel or, if the mood
was on you, you’d sing.
Now, you sleep and I wonder
do you fly with ravens in your dreams?

Momma do you still sing whale songs?

2006-08-10T17:07:00.000-07:00

Skin Cape ~~anna hood

If you’re discussing earth
consider the bog princess
think how the light dwindled
shrunk the size of her space
to one sculptured moment
remember how they stalked her
with sticks and stones
turned her insides out
turned her upsides down
turned her
burnt umber in her skin cape
her embroidered woolen skirt
steeped her for centuries
under a crust of peat
a boil of insects
her last song
to her lover or sister, or perhaps even
Blue Tooth that Danish King
who clasped his hands
around the thin stem
of her neck and squeezed
until her song stayed frozen in her head
like the needle on an old 45.
Consider her single B flat
resonating since 8000 BC
until someone heard
until someone opened
the earth and dug her out
still wrapped in her skin cape
and set her song free
set it flying to where she waits
her face pressed against
that thin gossamer wall
between the living
and the dead.

If you’re discussing earth
consider the bog
princess.

2006-08-07T11:52:00.000-07:00

Him 'n' Her

2006-08-05T17:17:00.000-07:00

Wings for Sale ~~ anna hood

The ad read: Wings
slightly used

and my common
or uncommon sense flew
out the window to the cliff
by the sea
where I met him

fluttering down
his white wings rouged
with evening light.
He was singing like Frank
Come fly with me, come
fly, we’ll fly away
and although he didn’t have
Frank’s voice he did
have blue eyes.

I examined the construction
- no fool I -
the feathers were strong.
What sort are these, I asked.
Swan, he replied,
and he showed me how secure
was his wax, his bindings
of silk.

He cautioned me
about the sun
about the damp
then bid me jump
into the darkening fields
of sky and flap
and flap.

The setting sun stroked
me with orange fingers
planted white feathers
on my shoulders
and I bit the wind
with my black beak
and rose into the silvery night
and never looked back.

2006-08-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

Skipping Stones ~~ anna hood

I've never been good at it
saying goodbye, but then who is?
It could never last
we all knew it
a God, even a minor God
couldn't last here.

A young woman, white as Antarctica
spoke his name.
He smiled, the lines
on his cheek like a sewn up knife
wound deepening
a familiar grin
young again beautiful
in that metallic pale light
his cigarette sparking tiny ruby
splinters on his glasses
his body trapped
in a place someplace
where I couldn't go
even his male smell diminished.

He told me all his stories
his throat vibrating
like a cello
all the stories that had been swept
under the carpet.
The fibres of his life
woven together, the women
the young men even the dogs
he'd known and cried for
brought out into that bald light.

'You must have,' he’d said,
'The Klee print
The Jack London - 1st edition
The three smooth stones
from The Ganges
Blue - the mongrel dog who sang along
with Pink Floyd' (dead now for years)
'my favourite pen.'

This was when I wept
and leaning over I kissed
him on the mouth
my breath flowing into his lungs
like a stone skipped
on the flat bay.

2006-07-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

Triangles of Glass ~~ anna hood

The crows are in place wrapped still
in night. She glides past
her eyelet nightie soft as old lady’s
cheeks, her pink chenille robe
the hem dripping dew
swishes the grass like a tongue,
her bare feet treading chamomile
into tea.

He’s waiting in a barn full of ghosts
rusting forgotten implements,
triangles of glass cobwebbed and smeared
with age, the air fanned by silent wings
of an owl who nests in the loft.
She pauses
in the doorway, her nose filling
with the scent of shampoo,
laundry soap
him. He’s young enough
to be her son, his faded jeans
bleached nearly white, both knees
torn.
Unbuttoned.

In the hay he makes a bed
of chenille, drapes
her nightie on a cross
post and spreads himself
like a feast. She kneels
in the rising sun in streamers
of dawn.

The crows have left.
At the top of the stairs
her man still sleeps
gathering energy
for another day.

2006-07-20T12:37:00.000-07:00

Paper Moon ~~ anna hood

Each day she has to navigate
through Alzheimer country.
nothing is safe Jesus Christ
nobody can be trusted
why even those damn raping priests
sneaking in at night
knocking her up
stealing her babies
seven so far
although God knows
why they'd ever want them
stinky little bastards.

She sings Harbour Lights
or Sentimental Journey
knows all the words
to Paper Moon
sometimes if she's on a rant
she sings hymns
blames God
blames the nurses
been known to bite
the hand that feeds her
hurls strychnine laced peas
at the wall turns her face
away from potatoes
mashed with arsenic
even the tea isn't safe
Holy Mother of God

Tied in her chair
face falling onto her chest
legs black and blue from kicking
knuckles threatening to break
through the skinny cellophane
skin covering them
pleating her sleeve
hands dusting smoothing
wringing the air
Stormy Weather
pouring from her mouth.

There's a young man comes
familiar looking
she thinks he can be trusted
he brings her raspberries
the wild scent still clinging to them
she whispers from behind her hand,
'You need to speak to someone
I'm pregnant again.'

2006-07-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

If I were a Soprano ~~ anna hood

If I were a soprano
I’d sing for you, O Mio Babbino
Caro, I’d wrap my silver voice around you,
lift you into the swell
of a high C, my dress swirling
around us, a froth
grey-green chiffon
the great whales in chorus
dolphins walking on water.

The earth would try to tie us
down, she’d wrap us in chords
of gravity, press us into a cameo
of amber light but we’d trick her,
we’d slip off the edge of Peru
on an arpeggio of pure crystal
sound, the melody carrying us
into the sky where we’d spin,
my sweetheart we’d spin and spin,
molto allegro on treble cleffs
your pocket watch swinging in perfect time
our feet dancing on sharp flats.

I’d steal your breath when you tasted
my song, when your fingertips touched a note
the key of E, you’d stir the west wind.
We’d spin the globe, you and I
our voices shattering stars. In Calcutta and Cairo,
Hanoi, Moscow, Ottawa, even the city of angels
would look up, listen, as we showered them
with sequins.

The night would shiver if I were a soprano.
But I’m not a soprano; my mouth isn’t full
of music, only words
to say, I love you.

2006-07-16T08:43:00.000-07:00

a tiny vampire story ~~ anna hood

It was after midnight.

The girl sat quiet in the deluge, not fidgeting, not even brushing away the rain that dripped from the points of her hair onto the curve of her cheek then slid under the collar of her jacket. The wind blew the rain fiercely, sideways, upwards. In the yellow park light it clung to her hair like brilliant drops of sweat.

The Vampire stood, also motionless, under the overhang of the cupola watching her.

If someone were observing him they would see his eyes usually sharp and so grey they sometimes appeared colourless, soften. Even his arrogant nose, a nose like a royal would wear, seemed to lose its fearsome curve as he watched the girl. She was a beauty no doubt, with a face like a Botticelli angel, brows framing eyes dark as ripe olives. And slim with that lushness of youth.

Could she be the one, he wondered. Even after all this time, and as cynical as he’d become through the years, he still liked to think that there could be someone for him – a soul mate – someone he could go through eternity with. There’d been other relationships in his life, of course, but they had failed, miserably; it’s difficult to keep the glow through countless centuries.

They’d met in the park, right where she was sitting. There’d been a concert, Mozart – the Vampire had always loved Mozart – he’d been watching her then too. The orchestra played Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa Papagena; her eyes filled and spilled over; he’d leaned over and offered his handkerchief. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “The Magic Flute always makes me weep.” He’d fallen immediately in love; who could resist, especially with a girl who looked like her?

He’d taken her to a dark little coffee house across town. As she sipped her cappucino she said, “You’re a vampire aren’t you?” Very seldom was he at a loss for words but he was then – he was speechless. “It isn’t anything to be ashamed about,” she continued, perhaps taking his little gasp of astonishment for shame, “I’ve known a few vampires.” He thought this to be a lie, or at the very least a mistake; vampires are solitary, they’re too belligerent for one thing and spiteful and jealous for another. They very seldom associate with their own kind and never with mortals. “Tell me about them,” he’d said.

She did and in great detail and it seemed she had been acquainted with vampires. Some of the younger ones these days were propagating without rhyme or reason. They were lonely and thought they needed a companion.

He’d been truthful with her, telling her of the loneliness and the tedious boredom, of being the hunted and the hated. “You realize you’d never see another sunrise, never feel a babe at your breast, never know the joy of grandchildren and always, always, always, wondering if you are truly safe.”

“I don’t care,” she’d cried as she clung to him. “I don’t care about these things and who is ever safe anyway? I just want to be with you. I love you, you know that, don’t you?”

He did know it and this was why he hadn’t told her of the extraordinary things: how he could touch a musical note, how colours had texture, that when the first drops of warm blood pumped by a still living heart touched his lips the feeling was the same as an intense sexual climax. No, he hadn’t told her these things.

“What about how we live?” the Vampire continued. “I’ve seen you weep over a dead animal. How will you survive?”

“But we won’t eat animals, will we?” she’d said laughing.

So he stood hiding in the shadows of the park gazebo, watching her, listening as her blood coursed through her veins, listening to the thud of her heart.

As if she knew his thoughts, she called out into the darkness, “Jules, I know you’re out there.” He smiled as she called his name; as many times as he told her the correct pronunciation was Zhooles, she still called him Jewels. It was one of the things that charmed him. He knew in perhaps a hundred years or so he might find this annoying but then perhaps one evening they might wake up and she would have learned.

“Jewels,” she called again, "I love you. Let me face the fire with you.”

The Vampire went to her. He tasted her breath and knew that he loved her.

“Close your eyes and count slowly to one hundred.”

She pulled her hair back, lifted her throat and counted. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

2006-07-12T14:59:00.000-07:00

Ooh Hawaii would be nice

2006-07-12T14:48:00.000-07:00

Passing ~~ anna hood

Her standing at the sink
nattering on her dreams
to swim in the warm sea
Hawaii maybe walking the sandy beach
salt air warm against
her skin walking arm in arm
with a man who loves her
desires her a red hibiscus
pinned into her hair
young again
young again
by the sea.

Him seated at the table
oblivious to her, oblivious
to the sea or her dreams
his fingers drumming
up his own long dead
dreams his fingers racing up
and down the cloth
running up the sharps
down the flats
his fingers hearing
Bach, hearing Chopin
hearing himself play Schubert
at Massey Hall
hearing applause
applause at Massey Hall.

Outside cars pass sounding like the surf
sounding like applause.
A jet cuts a scar across the sky.

2006-07-08T08:41:00.000-07:00

Dawn ~~ anna hood

When the earth's face is still marked
with sleep I'll come stealing the night
glazing crimson the Earnescliff Hills
blazing the marsh grass
at the mouth of the river.
At the pool
where the horse chestnut preens
under her flaming candelabra
of ivory blooms a heron wades
bows his head to me. Cows kneel
in my warmth. Along the tumbled down
fence morning glories
show me their throat and in yards
green as new peas
peonies relax their pink fists.
I wake the osprey the gull and the trout
shimmer the bay silver
stalk the shadows under the blue spruce
send the owl with her white breast
home on silent wings to her brood.
The field mouse offers up a naked child.

Crawl out of your tangled nest
of down - you were young once -
leave your aches and pains
your fallen arches, bleeding gums
your thick waisted body
and meet me in the meadow
when the cock crows.
Leave your undreamed dreams behind
your despairing thoughts your forgotten goals.
Kick that old hound to the foot
of your bed. Leave the sheep
streaming sleep walkers
to ply the Milky Way
and meet me.

I am a new day.

2006-07-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

Do you have any idea what this means?

2006-07-04T14:59:00.001-07:00

Prayer Flags anna hood

Her fine hands find
one another, clasp
each other beneath her chin.
She directs her gaze upward
through light dribbled holes
in the sky as night drops her heavy fist.

Her abandoned thoughts drift
like prayer flags in the shadow
of Everest, turn into dreams
or birds, or little brown bats.
The earth spins
shivers
covers herself
in a quilt of Northern Lights.

She sings in the blue neon light
of stars that sent their message
through a millennium of years.
She sings of lost loves
sings of broken promises
or secrets bonded like crystal
to glass, the notes soaring
from her mouth like the 'datoo'
of Gibraltar, her song
carrying the fragrance
of date blossoms.

She's still now
slipping out of her smooth skin
becoming one perfect aria.
It is prayer time.

2006-07-03T11:43:00.000-07:00

Does she mean me?

2006-07-03T11:32:00.000-07:00

A Skinny Minded Man - anna hood

You man! You so skinny minded
you think you can come round here
whenever you want an mess
with my heart? You think yer so special
I hear angels sing when you kiss
me?

Last time you left me cryin
and wailin wondrin how I could live,
my heart beatin a dirge, my brain
too weak to drag me outta bed
inna mornin n me like a rail
losin twenny pounds.

And now yer back, wolf
teeth snappin at my resolve
grinnin behind lips I want
to kiss, that hard piece
pushin the tough times
outta sight.

I know you think
I got a tin brain
my head so soggy with needin
that wet place filled, you could slide
right back in like a slippery old eel.
Hah! Think again
you!

But, let me
kiss you one last time
before I kick your fine ass
outta my bed.

2006-07-01T10:02:00.000-07:00

I really prefer poems that rhyme

2006-07-01T05:23:00.000-07:00

Bones

posed a problem and the head
my god the head
I could barely resist
boiling it clean
displaying it gleaming

smooth on the mantle
flowers clamped
in your big white teeth tiger
lilies or dandy
lions no pussy
willows for you
I am laughing
darling - a little joke

a few whacks
with the sledge
and you were a fine powder
the roses are beautiful
this year my dear
my freezer full of meat
tough though it is waste
not want not you did leave
me rather in the lurch

I passed you off as mutton
you old goat
at dinner parties your last lady
friend demanded the name
of my butcher as her tongue
wrestled with one
of your more disgusting joints
saved just for her
I should complain
she bleated

as I hit her on the head
these days I am becoming
bold discovered a certain taste
for ladies -snort-

one is what one eats
after all.

(so says anna hood)

2006-07-01T05:19:00.000-07:00

Story People
by anna hood

Last night I met myself
in the hardware department
at the WalMart between rubber
hammers and ceiling fans
fragile as a bubble drifting
translucent in the electric air
all my story people hovering
pulsing in their secret places
waiting to be born.

The key maker young with raggedy
hair grinned, revealed a gold
tooth hidden in the velvet
cave of his mouth. He said,
‘keys, you want keys, I got keys.
I got keys to your house I got
keys to your car.’ Here he winked,
‘I even got keys to lock
up your old man.’

He pointed to a woman,
with a blue parrot
on her shoulder, her black hair
swirling a whirlpool
around three daughters.
‘I ain’t got keys for them,’
he declared, snapping his mouth
shut, hiding his gold
tooth, hiding his blank
keys, ‘those doors are locked.
Jim Morrison is dead.’

The story people fell
back screaming, pounding
their fists, thrashing inside
their plots but the woman
with the hair
with the parrot
with the daughters,
said, ‘ssh, ssh, he’s wrong
these doors aren’t locked.’

And I got out of bed
and started to write.

2006-06-30T17:24:00.000-07:00

Hmmm so you write poetry

2006-06-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

one of my favourite poems

A Different Point of View
by anna hood

‘Prove it,’ she said. ‘Prove that you love me.
You’re always going away
leaving me alone.’
‘A gift,’ he said, I’ll give you a gift
to prove my love,’
and he stuck his eye in the hollow
beside her right ankle.

At first it was uncomfortable
the eye rolling
fluttering its eyelashes.
Not that it was intrusive
it wasn’t. It never interfered
with the straps on her shoe
and even though it had to remain
shut under the white socks
when she ran and even though
it blinked furiously in the shower
when soap ran down her leg
it never complained.

She grew used to it, fond of it even
it was company of a sort
when he went off on his trips
a black patch marking the spot
where the eye used to be.
She started using baby soap
stopped wearing socks
and for fear of razoring it away
let the hair on her right ankle grow
long, rather like a silky bellbottom
and - for shame - she stopped
wearing panties. The eye would blink
its eyelashes quivering against
the long hair on her right ankle
send a shiver right up her right leg.

People remarked on it, her strange tattoo.
Different from a rose or butterfly they’d say.
She’d lower her eyes, glance down,
twisting her ankle this way and that.
The eye would wink
glance slyly up under her skirt
make her shiver.

It completely changed her point of view.

Pendragons

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